Chapter 26 Fletcher
FLETCHER
The locker room’s buzzing as I pull on my gear. The rookies are antsy like the dogs we’d use in the military that just wanted to go loping over the bombed-out desert landscape for hours on patrol.
I lace up my skates tight. I’m itching to get on the ice, itching to skate, to win.
“We gonna win, you think?” Jovi is twitchy next to me. Now that we’ve all had a taste of victory, no one wants to go back.
“We better.” Bramms wraps clear tape around his shin guards.
“You’re all winners to me!” Ellie’s mom bustles into the locker room.
“Trina, goddamn it, don’t listen to her!” Granny Murray rails. “I have money riding on you all.”
“I thought team employees weren’t supposed to place bets.”
“Goddamn little snitch.” Granny Murray waves the stick she’s carrying threateningly at Cookie. “They don’t pay me enough to keep me from gambling my social security check. I earned that check.”
“Are you all decent?” Ellie pokes her head in.
I can’t keep my eyes off of her as she runs through the plays.
Everyone’s locked in. Zayne hasn’t had a drink in days—I know because I slept on a mattress at the foot of his bed and made sure of it—and he looks like he’s twenty-five again, about to dominate the hockey world. I can taste the win.
“And remember”—Ellie claps her hands—“anyone who scores or gets an assist chooses a prize out of the prize bag.”
Jovi raises his hand.
“Yes, Jovi, everyone will get a sticker for participating.”
“No, um, that’s not what I was going to ask. Can I ask my question?”
“Yes.”
“Are we getting pizza Lunchables for snack?”
“Yes!” Ellie claps her hands.
“Fuck yeah!” Bramms and Carlsson whoop.
“Pizza Lunchable.” I manage to pick out the words from the Scandinavian licorice mouth of the Finn.
“It’s the reason we saved your asses in World War II.”
He scowls at me and slams his helmet on his head.
“You better—”
“Don’t worry, Elvis.” I smirk at Ren. “You might wanna bring a book because no pucks are coming to your net tonight.”
I catch Ellie as she trots into the equipment room. She’s wearing a skirt.
I slide my gloved hand under it. “I wish I’d fucked you last night,” I whisper in her ear, making her shiver.
She’s not wearing a pink suit. This one is white with a plunging neckline. The skirt’s flouncy and short. She twists away. I grab her arm, pulling the fabric to revealing a crescent of red lace.
She yelps when I grab the back of her neck.
“What are you wearing?”
“Just in case you need some extra motivation.” She blinks up at me and fusses with her neckline.
My nostrils flare. I can practically taste her. “I don’t need the promise of your pussy to win.” I slap my helmet on. “I’m going to do that anyway.”
My team is vibrating by the time we line up in the tunnel. Helmets on. Visors down. The roar of the crowd echoes down the tunnel.
Zayne’s the captain. He stands at the end of the line, slapping each of the players on the thigh with his stick as they pass.
I take my spot as alternate captain, second to last in the lineup.
“You ever figure out your song choice, Fletch?” he grins, the music still pounding through our chests.
“Fuck yeah, I’ve been knowing what I’m playing,” I holler to him as we head down the tunnel. I feel like I’m about to jump out of a C-130 airplane into the pitch-dark.
We’re electric. The crowd is deafening. And then I hear it.
My song.
Ever since I was a kid, I daydreamed of this being my walk-off song when I played in the NHL.
The bass drops. The plexiglass almost shatters as the first of our team steps onto the ice, powerful, invincible. I bribed Ellie’s cousin who works the sound system to turn the bass way the fuck up, and the beat of the rap song makes the jumbotrons shake.
I can feel it pumping in time to my heart. Can’t even make out the words to the song—it’s just that unrelenting beat.
It’s even better than I imagined when I was in high school, daydreaming about this moment.
And when the announcer goes, “Your alternate captain, Fletcher Sullivan,” and my name and picture flash on the shaking jumbotron, the crowd goes fucking wild.
I light up the ice, making a powerful lap around to the screams of the crowd, all in my team’s colors.
“Fuck yeah. We play for the fucking NHL!” Bramms screams at me over the eardrum-bursting music.
Ellie’s laughing, her hand clapped to her chest, watching me. I wink at her and line up for the national anthem.
Then we slaughter the other team. We’re all locked in together. It’s the best we ever played. The second the buzzer sounds, we’re all over the puck. The energy is unreal.
Ellie’s plays flow off our sticks effortlessly.
The Finn sinks a nasty goal before the other team even knows where the puck is.
Jovi executes a no-look backhand pass to Zayne, and he makes one of those impossible shots that’s going to make the highlight reel.
The other team tries to rally, but Bramms checks a guy so hard the crowd audibly groans.
And me?
I dominate the boards, I wreck their top scorer, and when I score in the second period—my second goal of the night—I don’t even celly. I just point my stick at Ellie. I’m getting laid tonight, if I don’t die of adrenaline rush first.
Cookie is the ringer. He waits like a bird dog for Ellie’s signal, then he zips onto the ice, knifing through guys, taking the quick-release puck Zayne shoots in a pocket for him, then goal!
Ellie got the little fucker to go in every period and score. He even went in twice in the third period, which earns him a hug and a kiss on his helmet from Ellie while the crowd chants, “Let him cook!”
It’s a shutout. We win six to nothing and pile onto Ren at the end of the match while the home-game crowd roars their approval.
“Fuck, I love hockey!”
“Goddamn it, Yankee, I do believe you might be able to play the game of your Northern people after all.” Ren grins his gummy smile at me.
“Cookie! Cookie!” The crowd throws hats on the ice, and we gather them up, piling them on the kid’s head.
“So proud of you.” Zayne cups his face, giving him a rough shake.
“Let’s go eat some fucking pizza Lunchables!” Jonesy whoops, jumping on my shoulders as we troop victorious down the tunnel to the locker room.
“You won!” Ellie’s ecstatic. “Beautiful goal, Fletcher.” She praises all the players. “Zayne, of course, setting up plays like a master, and Cookie, who got on the ice four times today.”
“It’s gotta be some sort of record,” I say. “I mean, total, he was on the ice what, two minutes, and scored four goals?”
“Insanity.”
“We won! We won!” we chant as Ellie passes out the little plastic squares of processed bread, meat, and cheese.
Cookie intently measures out his sauce, cheese, and cold pepperoni on the little round flatbreads.
The Finn looks absolutely revolted and refuses to touch it.
“Can I have yours?” The rookies pester him.
“Ziggy, tell him he’s insulting our culture.” I grin around my own pizza Lunchable. I toss the little candy bar that comes with it to Cookie.
Ren glops the sauce on two of the soft crackers, adds cheese, and mashes them together. “Shit, I bet we get a wildcard spot, at least in the playoffs.” He chews noisily.
“We keep playing like that, we’re going to the Eastern Conference final,” Zayne crows, leaning back so he can stretch his hamstring.
“The press wants you, Fletcher!” Harlowe calls to me.
I yank my jersey over my head, still soaked in sweat and adrenaline. My heart’s pounding like the bass from the intro music, and I feel ten feet tall. “Tell them I died,” I call back to Harlowe, squeezing the ice-cold juice box into my mouth. The sugar hits my brain.
Fuck, that’s good.
“Nope,” she says, smirking as she sticks her head into the locker room. “You scored twice and body-checked that guy into 1996. The cameras want your pretty face. Shirt on, please. They want you and Ellie.”
“No, shirt off!” Granny Murray boos.
I grab my stick and thud down the hall to stand next to Ellie like a knight. She gives me a brilliant smile.
“Coach,” I drawl.
“Do you get something out of the surprise bag?” one of the reporters demands.
“I got two goals, so I’m entitled.”
The reporters titter.
“I hear the Legos are popular items.”
“What it really needs are alcohol and condoms.”
Ellie gets very serious. “I have condoms in my tote bag. And I will give them away free to anyone who asks. We are not getting anyone pregnant—no baby-mama drama, please!”
“Are you in a relationship with one of the rink rats?” one reporter snickers to me.
“I actually prefer my fuck buddies to be hockey players.”